Case of the Burning Heart
by Muffy Morrigan
Summary: Moriarty begins working on his promise to burn the heart out of Sherlock and once he begins, a chain of events is set in motion that will lead Sherlock on a course that might destroy him. Hurt!John.
1. It Begins

_A/N: So here we are with Sherlock. I have had this idea pinging around my head for a bit based on the little snippet of information that is part of the Mycroft bit further down in the story. It's actually based on an actual event, although I have changed place, name, etc. But the idea remains the same. I hope you like it. There won't be too long a wait for the second bit, this was just too perfect a place to break it. _

_A/N II Happy Birthday Merisha_

**Case of the Burning Heart**

**It Begins**

It was finally quiet, after three days of non-boring activity, it was finally quiet. John sighed as he poured the last drops of milk in his cup. The lack of boredom on Sherlock's part had resulted in the destruction of a car, four bodies and completely annoying Lestrade. Sherlock was thrilled and had even agreed to remain unbored long enough for John to go to the shops and replenish their dwindling supply of food. They had no milk, no coffee, a tiny crumble of stale bread and no tea. Even the flies that haunted the kitchen, compliments of Sherlock's experiments, had deserted them for lack of food.

"I'm off to get food in a few minutes," he said.

"Huh, good plan," Sherlock said, standing.

"What are you doing?"

"Coming with you."

"I'm just going to the shops, Sherlock. Pretty boring."

"I like shopping."

John narrowed his eyes. "Since when?"

"Since now."

"Okay, but no badgering the butcher about dismemberment, no following random people in case they might shoplift."

"He did shoplift." Sherlock waited. "He did."

"Okay, yes, he did, but the store has security." John laughed as they went down the stairs.

"Not very good security," Sherlock replied, laughing with him.

"Of course not," John said. "You will behave? I can't go back to three stores now, you know, pretty soon I am going to be banned from all of London."

"They just don't appreciate help."

"Sherlock, I'm serious." John tried to sound firm, but his friend had that happy gleam in his eye he got when he was looking forward to going out and maybe stumbling over something new. It was a look it was hard to say no to. "I mean it."

"I know you do." Sherlock grinned. "Fine. I'll behave."

"You better."

"I will."

John couldn't help laughing at the pathetically earnest face Sherlock turned on him. It still amazed him how Sherlock could become a completely different person with just voice and expression. "Okay," John said opening the door.

They stepped onto the street and Sherlock closed the door behind them. It was cold, even though the sun was shining. John zipped his coat and Sherlock flipped his collar up and they set off down the street in a comfortable silence. They were about half a block from 221B when someone turned the corner and started walking quickly towards them.

"Burn the heart out of you!" the man cried.

In a jumble of things that tumbled all together, John felt Sherlock moving, trying to shove him aside, he saw the gun appear and he felt a dull thump. John was falling not really sure what had happened, Sherlock caught him, one hand pressing against him. The color was gone from Sherlock's already pale face. He was speaking, but the words made no sense and suddenly John knew what had happened. He'd been shot. The fact he didn't hurt meant so many bad things. He reached up and grabbed Sherlock's coat, even as Sherlock continued to press on the wound that should hurt but didn't. He saw Sherlock glance up, then back at him.

"Don't die," Sherlock said.

John wished he could answer, wanted to say so much, but when he tried blood bubbled over his lips. He kept his eyes locked on Sherlock's for as long as he could.

It wasn't long.

**XXXXX**

"You leave this to me," Mycroft said.

"No," Sherlock said calmly, his eyes fixed on a fly working its way across the wall. He'd kept his hand on John's wound as he'd dialed for help with his other. Mrs. Hudson had come out and stood beside him, weeping, as they waited for the medics to arrive. The assassin was dead, one look was all Sherlock needed to know the man had taken cyanide the instant he'd fired the shot. There had been no point in examining him—there would be nothing to identify him. In fact, even as he knelt beside John, his hand over the sucking wound on his chest, he'd noticed the shooter had no tips on his fingers, all ten chopped off at the top joint.

"I have people trained to deal with this." No one else would notice the small under current in Mycroft's voice, but Sherlock did, and his brother was right to worry.

"I know." The fly had stopped and was rubbing its forelegs together almost as if it were anticipating a large meal.

"Then leave it to me."

"No." Sherlock repeated. They were standing outside the hospital. John was still in surgery, in the hands of the best surgeon that Mycroft's name could supply, which was the best the country had to offer. It had been two hours. Sherlock had tried staying in the surgical waiting area, he'd lasted an hour and fifty-four minutes, but there was a woman that would not stop crying, and a child of twelve playing some hideous video game that was full of gunshots, and his mother would not make him put the headphones on.

He was not surprised to find his brother waiting when he stepped outside.

"Sherlock." Mycroft turned to face him, there was a tremble at the corner of his right eye. It was always one of his tells. "You can't go after whoever did this."

"I know who did this," he replied, still calm, watching the tic at the corner of his brother's eye become more pronounced.

"My people can act faster."

"I doubt that." Sherlock wondered if John would want him to call Harry. He knew they didn't get along, but would he want her to know? If John were there he would ask, John was always good with those kinds of questions. That thought gave Sherlock the oddest twist in his chest.

"I am not you're enemy, Sherlock."

"No, you aren't, but he is." Sherlock smiled. "He is your enemy, which is why you're here."

"This can't be handled wrong."

"It won't be."

"We need him brought in for questioning."

Sherlock felt a smile tug at his lips, it was cold and he knew if John were there, his friend would be worried about the smile. Mycroft knew him well enough to be equally worried. "There won't be anything left to question when I find him."

"That is unacceptable."

"Yes, I'm sure it is." He was about to say more when his phone beeped. He looked down at the text. "_Is he dead? JM" _Sherlock put the phone back in his pocket and looked at the pavement for a moment, then back up at his brother. "I can't. No matter if John lives or di … dies, Moriarty is paying for this."

"And I can't let you do that." Mycroft was trying to keep his face still. Sherlock could see the tension in his jaw muscles.

"The game then, brother dear, is on."

"I mean it," Mycroft called as Sherlock turned and walked back towards the entrance.

Sherlock paused long enough to look back, long enough for Mycroft to get a good look. His brother took half a step back, almost as if he had been hit. "So do I," Sherlock said, and walked into the building.

XXX

Mycroft watched his brother disappear through the doors. This was going to be a serious problem. He could feel the tic at the corner of his eye, and knew Sherlock had seen it. Of course he had, to miss it would have been unthinkable—just as he hadn't missed Sherlock rubbing his left thumb and forefinger together. It was his tell, it had been since he'd taken up violin. The fact that is was there was disturbing. Sherlock was not given to nervous twitching, even when he was bored—which was sadly a frequent occurrence. There had been a hope—closer to a half-hope—that calling in Dr. Seekins would be enough to keep Sherlock quiet.

It had worked for less than fifteen minutes.

His people had alerted him to some interesting calls being made in his name within seconds of Seekins arrival at the operating theater. John Watson had been under the knife for half an hour when Mycroft's Swiss Counterpart had called and said that he was curious as to why Mycroft had requested the information be sent somewhere other than his office, but it was on its way. He'd covered, said he feared a leak, and that was enough to satisfy Friedrich, but it wasn't enough for Mycroft. Now he had to track down the information, because he couldn't ask where it was being delivered either. Putting a tail on Sherlock was a waste of time, no matter how good the person was, it would take his brother less than a minute to figure out he was being followed and deal with the problem.

Mycroft was worried. It was bad enough Moriarty was out there. The man had been plaguing him for some time, playing behind the scenes, destroying some very well laid plans. Yes, that was bad enough.

But what was coming was so much worse.

People thought they knew his brother. Mycroft knew the police referred to him as "the freak", John's blog had pushed the image of the anti-social genius to the forefront, but there were very few people who knew Sherlock. Maybe only two, Mycroft was one—and the other was dying, shot down on the street. He'd heard Sherlock refer to himself as a high functioning sociopath, and he was correct in that assessment. They both were. It was why Mycroft was good at his particular job.

Of course there was one problem with sociopaths. If they chose to care about something, all bets were off. There had been an intelligence operative that had worked for Mycroft some years before, and the man was perfectly suited to the job. He, too, was a sociopath and calmly gathered information and killed as needed with no more reaction than other people might have when they picked up a paper and had a cup of tea. Then he'd befriended a street urchin in Karachi. They all had their weaknesses—Mycroft cleared his throat—and Golson had his. When the child had been gunned down in front of him, Golson had systematically destroyed all the members—fifty people—of a terrorist cell. Not because they were a threat to the nation, no, because they had killed the child.

Mycroft had a weakness, but he never thought anything would breach his brother's walls. Laughing mirthlessly, he walked up the street towards the Jag. Never in a million years would he have thought anything would make it through to Sherlock—and something had—and now Mycroft had a huge problem. Simply because as cold as Golson was, he was a fluffy teddy bear compared to Sherlock, fifty men would be nothing if it meant he would get to Moriarty. Tearing down the Commonwealth would mean nothing… Some days he wished he'd taken Farthington's advice several years before and had his brother removed then. It wasn't sentiment that stopped him, Sherlock was useful. And now, now he was loose and bent on revenge.

Yes, it was a rather large problem.

_**To Be Continued **_


	2. The Fire Spreads

**Case of the Burning Heart**

**The Fire Spreads**

The hospital was quiet. They always were, as if a noise would make a difference in life or death. Sherlock paced down the hallways towards the surgical waiting area. John had been in surgery for almost two and a half hours. It seemed too long, the wound, while horrific, was basic and a man of Seekins skill should be finished. The seating area was empty now. There was a nurse marching down the hall, nothing but crisp efficiency in her gate. She'd been out too late the night before, her make-up was a little too heavy and her hair was definitely flatter on one side than the other. There was a tiny limp in her gate, Sherlock chose not to dwell on that and instead paced to the window to look out at the city. _He _was out there somewhere, sitting in the center of his web, waiting to see what his next play would be. Did he know John was wounded but alive, or did he think him dead? Which news would serve Sherlock's cause more? It would be easier to keep him safe…

He pulled out his phone. _Can you arrange announcement of John's death? S_ He wouldn't need to explain why to Mycroft—his brother would understand immediately. He had his uses which is why Sherlock had let a few transgressions pass by without action

_Consider it done, will be on the news in less than ten minutes. M_

Sherlock smiled. His brother was probably hoping that would be enough to keep Sherlock in place in the hospital guarding John just in case. The funny thing was, even Mycroft occasionally forgot about Sherlock and his life. He pulled his phone out again and sent another text, it was just a matter of time now, waiting for a reliable guard to appear.

"How is he?" Lestrade asked softly. Sherlock had braced himself for the detective inspector's arrival the moment he heard the lift doors opened and recognized Lestrade's step.

"Obviously still in surgery."

"We have nothing to go one with the shooter. You were right, cyanide in one of those little rubber capsules and no finger prints or dental to go on—all but three teeth were false and the ones that were real were ground down enough to be unidentifiable."

"Of course they were. I think I told you it was a waste of time. You won't find any food in his intestines to place him anywhere in town and while DNA is helpful for ruling people out, it's not that useful for finding them," Sherlock said, still watching the street below the window.

"You need to leave this to me," Lestrade said firmly.

That made Sherlock turn from the window. "Funny, you're the second person to tell me that today. I'll give you the same answer. No."

"You can't just go after whoever this is."

"I know who it is." Sherlock met the man's eyes.

"You need to let us…"

"No, because you won't. You will arrest him and sit him in a cell and he will get away with this—and that is not an option."

Lestrade's face slowly changed from concern to horror as he realized what Sherlock meant. "No, you can't."

"Yes, I can. More to the point, I will."

"Sir? You may see Dr. Watson, five minutes only," a female voice said from behind him

Sherlock turned away without another word and followed the woman down the hall, leaving Lestrade alone in the surgical area.

**XXXXX**

Lestrade watched Sherlock walk away. He could sense the trouble brewing, he knew what the man was capable of, he'd seen it in action once or twice, but never in anger. This time Sherlock had every reason to be angry and Lestrade was pretty sure there was no way to stop him short of putting him into a coma.

He pulled out his phone and scrolled to a number he had stored, but rarely used. It was one that was only used in the case of the direst emergencies. He was pretty sure this counted.

"_I am worried about what Sherlock might do."_

The reply came back faster than he expected and the content was deeply distressing.

"_Lock down the crime scenes as fast as you can and contact me immediately. I will take care of the mess. MH"_

**XXXXX**

Sherlock followed the nurse to the ICU ward. She left him outside a room, reiterating the five minute rule, and departed to her duties. It was quieter here than the other parts of the hospital. The only sounds those of machines, it was as if humanity had deserted the patients here and all that was left were the machines. To his left he could hear the soft moans of someone in pain, there was the distinct scent of hospital disinfectant and the coppery scent of blood that the other odors couldn't cover.

He stepped into John's room. Even though he'd told himself he was ready for this, knew what to expect and all—he wasn't. Sherlock had been in this ward more than once, but this, seeing John here… He cleared his throat and approached the bed. Most people would ignore the tubes and lines, the monitors and bags hooked up to the patient, but he couldn't. He looked at each name on each bag, knowing what each was for, he also knew what each monitor was, how they were attached and what they did. His eyes traveled over John's body, remembering the blood, the way the wound had sucked at his hand, but mostly remembering how John had held his eyes for as long as he could, longer than he managed to keep his hand grasped in Sherlock's coat.

The bedrail was cold under his hand as he stood beside it. He didn't want to have that to haunt him if… he pushed that thought away, it wasn't of any use here. He moved his hand so it was resting on John's arm. "I know you're in there, I know you can hear me, so do me a favor and just stop this, we have things to do, and you really don't want me to get bored do you?"

"Sir, it's been five minutes."

"I'll be back this evening, John, I have a few things to do. I'll expect you to still be here when I get back." He gave his friend's arm a little squeeze and left the room. As he walked out of ICU he noticed the hulk of Danny Fisher, former boxer, one time enforcer for the mob, now indebted to Sherlock. He had no doubts about the man's loyalty. There was no way Moriarty or anyone else would get past him. "Fisher," he said, stopping for a moment.

"Mr. Holmes."

"No one through the doors unless they have proper ID, if you suspect anything, follow them into Dr. Watson's room, understood?"

"Yes." It was a promise and a vow. If anyone made a run at John, they would be dead before they could get to his bedside.

"Thank you."

"Yes." And Fisher moved to block the doors.

Sherlock walked down the corridor and paused by the lift, then changed his mind and headed for the staircase. He wasn't sure if Mycroft was still lurking outside, or where Lestrade had gone off to, but he had no intention of either one of them getting in his way. That might turn out badly.

He went all the way to the bottom—the staff entrance from the parking garage—and slipped out, checking right and left to make sure there was no one waiting. He didn't think Mycroft would put a tail on him, but Lestrade might make that mistake. Again, Sherlock hoped he hadn't, it would turn out badly for the poor man chosen to follow him.

Luckily, there was no one there, and he walked out of the garage on the far side from where Mycroft had been parked and hailed a cab. The first stop was the man who had mysteriously disappeared after the Red Circle affair. Moriarty had gotten him out, the police could turn nothing up and Sherlock had been carefully amassing information on the man, he'd promised him back then he wouldn't get away with kidnapping John and Sherlock had always intended to keep that promise. He knew where the man was now, and he knew that the Red Circle was officially part of Moriarty's web. It was his first stop.

Sherlock found him at the rundown flat in an even more rundown neighborhood. Despite the outward appearance, when he let himself in he was not surprised to see the large screen TV or the other luxuries that were in the small room. "Hello," he said conversationally. Of course, if it had been his flat the first thing he would have installed was a decent security system, proving once again people were idiots.

The man jumped up from the couch, turned towards him and brought a gun up at the same time. Sherlock smiled. "I really wouldn't do that."

"Who the hell are you?"

"I shot you once, and you've forgotten me already?" As he said it, Sherlock moved over the couch in a fluid motion and had the man on the ground, his foot grinding against his throat. "Let's have a chat, shall we?"

**XXXXX**

Lestrade was first one the scene, he took one look and pulled out his phone. _"It's started."_

"_Don't let anyone else in. My people will be there in five minutes. Keep this quiet and lock it down. MH."_

"_Done." _As if he really had a choice. Bile rose in his throat as he looked around the area. If this was the beginning, how much worse would it get.

The problem was, he knew the answer. Sherlock Holmes was going to get Moriarty no matter what the cost.

**XXXXX**

There was no one by the stairs when Sherlock returned to the hospital. He guessed that no one had thought to put a guard there—either that or Mycroft and Lestrade knew he would find a way to visit John no matter what they tried to do to stop him. It had been a fruitful day, after discussing things with several members of the Red Circle—he should say former members of the former Red Circle—he had the information for his next step. He was playing Moriarty's game at his level now and they would just have to see who broke first. Sherlock knew the answer, but he wondered if Moriarty really did.

Since the first text, Moriarty had been silent. Sherlock wondered if the news announcement about John's death had been behind that. It didn't really matter, nor did it matter that Sherlock had no number for Moriarty. He was leaving his message very clearly all over London. Eventually, the man himself would have to come out and play. Until he did Sherlock intended to pull his web apart strand by strand until there was nothing left for Moriarty to hold on to.

"Fisher?" he said as he approached.

"Just medical personal and Lestrade. I knew him so I let him back."

"Right."

"I called Snyder for night duty, I hope that's okay?"

"Yes." Sherlock was planning on calling the man himself, but he had been distracted by his discussion with the Red Circle. He suspected Lestrade was beside himself, but you'd think he'd be grateful, the Red Circle was no more. "Good idea."

"He will be here in an hour, I'll brief him. Will you be here?"

"I have a meeting at ten."

"Do you need help?"

"I'll do fine." Sherlock didn't want to involve the man in what was happening that night. With a curt nod he went into ICU.

John hadn't moved, but the drugs had changed. Sherlock noted the new bags, and the missing ones. They were lowering the sedative, perhaps planning on waking the doctor the next day. That seemed soon, but Sherlock was not a physician, most of his knowledge of the human body had to do with post mortem information and that was simply not a thought he was going to connect with John. Sherlock put his hand on John's arm, taking comfort from the warm flesh under his palm.

"I've not been bored today," he said, looking down at John. There was a small hiss each time the vent released, two beeps to each hiss. "I chatted with an old friend of yours. I can't believe Lestrade and his people never found him there. Unless…" He trailed off. "I'm an idiot, aren't I? Someone knew he was there, and they were told not to find him. I have an appointment at ten, after that I might just check into why they never found him" He sighed. "I haven't been back to the flat. I… John… Please." It was all he could manage.

"Sir?"

"Yes, I'm coming," he snapped. "I'll be back later." With a gentle squeeze on John's arm, he left, not stopping this time on his way out but heading straight for the staircase—the public one not the staff one—just in case. He had no intention of being caught yet.

It was just before ten when he walked into the small, darkly lit café. He spotted Upton at a table towards the back of the room. Sherlock ignored the looks of the other patrons and walked straight back to the table.

"Ah, Holmes," Upton said, his sweet smile on his face.

"Upton," Sherlock said, sitting down across from the man, but turned enough so he could see both entrance and exit.

"So sorry to hear about your doctor."

"Don't mention him again or," Sherlock smiled, "this will be a very short conversation."

"Do you honestly think threats will work on me?" Upton laughed happily.

"Do you think that was a threat?"

The man paled for a moment, then smiled again. "What can I do for you?"

"I think you know."

**XXXXX**

The call came in at 10:30 and Lestrade was the first one on the scene. He opened the doors to the café, well known as a gathering place for some of the higher class thugs in London, and stopped. Swallowing hard he closed the door just as then next police vehicle arrived. He motioned for them to cordon off the area and pulled out his phone.

"_Upton and his café."_

"_Close it down, the team will be there in ten minutes. Did he leave anything behind? MH"_

Lestrade tried to get the images of the inside of the café out of his brain. _"Not much, I think there may be an arm in there somewhere."_

"_Don't be so dramatic. You know removing the arm of the leader of that gang sends a message. MH"_

"_Two arms."_

"_Probably both Upton's, keep it locked "_

"_Understood."_

**XXXXX**

Mycroft stared at the phone in annoyance for a moment after he broke the connection with Lestrade. Sherlock was becoming a nuisance and it was getting harder to cover up his little transgressions. He fully understood why his brother was doing it, and to be honest, most of what he'd done so far was helpful, but Mycroft knew that wouldn't last. He had been doing his own research and knew just how far Moriarty's web might extend and if Sherlock followed that strand—well covering that up would be a little more difficult. He needed to speak with his brother. He tried calling, but was unsurprised when he got no answer. So he tried a different tactic. Texting usually got a response.

"_How is John?"_

"_Alive."_

"_Not many left alive."_

"_Still too many."_

"_Leave this to me, Sherlock."_

"_We settled that, Mycroft. I have business. S."_

He was beginning to worry about his brother. He'd been wrong when he thought he'd known what Sherlock was capable of, so very wrong. When he'd compared him to Golson, he'd been wrong—not precisely wrong, just massively underestimating. It was as if Golson's street urchin had been killed and Golson had torn the entire country apart. Mycroft was beginning to fear that's where this was leading and he might be left with a very difficult choice.

_**To Be Continued**_


	3. The Fire Burns Too Hot

_A/N: Someone in a PM said they couldn't imagine Sherlock going quite this mad—I worried, then rewatched A Scandal in Belgravia. Look what he did to someone who hurt Mrs. Hudson…_

**Case of the Burning Heart**

**The Fire Burns Too Hot**

It was the time of night when even London was a little quiet, the graveyard watch, partygoers were home, early risers still in bed. Sherlock slipped through the shadows, out of sight of the cameras, to the hospital's employee parking. It was impossible for a car to get in this late, but the security on the doors was considerably less of a problem. He ran into a physician hurrying down the last few steps into the garage, the doctor stepped back, excusing himself and raced on. Judging by his hurry and the way his hair had just been combed and the careful attention to detail of his clothes, Sherlock guessed he was off on a date. Which was good, it meant he wouldn't miss his employee badge until tomorrow morning at the earliest.

He walked down the corridor, noting each camera and carefully looking away from it as he passed. The ID badge let him into a room where he could exchange his coat for scrubs and he set off to see John. Most of the staff he ran into nodded politely, not giving him so much as a second look. He'd explained it to John once—if you act like you are supposed to be there, people will assume you are supposed to be there.

The stairs were quiet as he headed up to the floor ICU was on. When he opened the door, he saw Snyder start towards him, then stop as he recognized him. Sherlock glanced around and walked towards the man. "What?" he said without preamble. Snyder was not a man who enjoyed conversation.

"Someone came in about an hour ago, headed straight towards Watson's room. I grabbed him and security took him out—he had a syringe full of bleach." Snyder shook his head. "I didn't know him, he didn't speak English."

"Ah," Sherlock said. One more thing to be dealt with after he saw John, it did explain something he'd heard at Upton's.

John had been moved. The arm that had been under the blanket was now out with an IV, the other tucked under the covers. He walked over and gently lifted the blanket. The IV was gone from that arm. _Interesting. _He looked up at the drugs, they were definitely easing off on the sedation. He ran through a few calculations in his head, at this rate, John might be conscious by late afternoon the next day. Sherlock hoped that he would have things tied up in time to be there.

He put his hand on John's arm, then stopped and thought about that—he knew John was alive, and judging by the reduction in sedation and the monitors, the doctor was getting better—and yet he needed that contact to let him know his friend was alive. It really made no sense. This was one of those things John would explain to him after a roll of his eyes and maybe even that long-suffering sigh he had. He always explained though. John knew when the explanation was really needed and when Sherlock was asking more to follow a lead in a case. Sherlock closed his eyes. His life had altered irreparably when John Watson had walked into the lab at Bart's. He'd known things were a little different, could sense it from time to time, but… When you eliminated all else, and he had tried, the answer was always the same. He was different, and even more disturbing was the fact that he relied on another human being for more than just a case. In fact all he wanted right now was to be able to talk to John about something meaningless, or have John chide him about that hand in the freezer. Yes, oh yes, Sherlock was changed.

He also knew he still had work to do. Moriarty was getting nervous. Things were starting to move—the attempt on John's life was an indication of that. Sherlock had an appointment with one of his regular informants. The man had contacted him and asked to meet—which meant more than likely it was a trap, although who was setting it was the question. Mycroft or Moriarty, who was behind this one?

"Not long now and I'll be done," he said to John. "I'll be back tomorrow. I might not be back until you're awake, although I'll try. John, please, I…" He cleared his throat. "I need…" He cleared his throat again, trying to fight the tight ball that was forming there and the hot burn of tears in his eyes. "I need you back," he said simply. With that, he left.

"They might make another run," Sherlock said as he approached Snyder.

"They won't get through."

"Yes, I know, just keep an eye out, check everyone, even hospital staff that has been by before, and if they object…"

"I don't care if they object, Mr. Holmes, they can just object and wait while I search them."

"Right," Sherlock nodded and left. He stopped and picked up his coat, and changed out of the scrubs and then headed out into the night. There was one stop before his appointment.

**XXXXX**

Mycroft was dosing when his phone beeped. Lestrade. The man was becoming wearisome. _You need to get this taken care of fast, _the text said.

_Why?_ He texted back, not bothering to turn on the light.

_Because I can't sit on this one, there is no way. If any of my people see this…_

That got Mycroft's attention. He sat up and turned on the light._ What is it?_

_I got a tip, anonymous, came out myself._

_Can you get to the point? _Mycroft ground his teeth together, the man was wearisome, he had no idea how Sherlock could stand him.

_Outler._

Mycroft stared at the phone for three full seconds. _Are you absolutely sure?_

_Yes, no doubt. _

_Where are you?_

Lestrade texted the address.

_I will be right there. _Mycroft was already out of bed, heading towards his closet. He could shield Lestrade so the detective inspector might keep his job, but this was going to have repercussions.

_You're coming?_

_Yes. _

Mycroft picked up his keys and headed out the door.

**XXXXX**

It was quiet in the back of the abandoned building. Dawn was lighting the sky a soft pink. Sherlock had come in the hard way—he'd gone through the building next door and made a leap across onto the roof. He just wanted to be sure that as many traps as possible could be avoided. This was a set-up, he knew it and he expected that whoever was behind it knew he knew, so it was all about who could play the game better—with only one small catch. If it was Mycroft, chances were none of the traps would be fatal, if it was Moriarty chances were they would be—or at least crippling. That added spice. If it wasn't for the image of John, motionless on that hospital bed that kept playing in his head, Sherlock would be having fun.

The top floors were easily traversed, but the fourth was the first one with a trap and he knew he was dealing with Moriarty and the man was in the mood to play not kill. The dart, had it hit him, would have paralyzed, but not killed. It was laughably simple to spot and Sherlock pulled his pen out and wrote _"You will have to try harder," _on the wood above the trigger. As he finished he sensed, rather than heard, a soft puff of air and ducked as another dart from the other side impaled the post at shoulder height. Sherlock grinned. The game was on, this was going to be fun.

The next trap was more subtle, and had he not been watching, he would have ended up with one leg through the floor. The carefully cut boards were barely visible, but whoever had done it had carelessly left behind a footprint. When he finally got his hands on Moriarty he planned on telling him how sloppy his people were. In fact, he was looking forward to Moriarty's surprised then disappointed face—right before Sherlock killed him. This time there was no question, the man was going to die.

He was distracted and almost fell victim to the third trap, but ducked and rolled as the blade swung down out of nowhere. It was still swinging lazily back and forth when Sherlock stepped up behind the man waiting for him and tapped him on the shoulder.

"You're looking the wrong way, Perkins," he said.

Perkins jumped, turned around, the blood draining from his face. "What…"

"Didn't expect me did you?"

"No, he made me send the message, I wouldn't double cross you," Perkins said desperately. "You know that."

"I'm not an idiot," Sherlock said and for some reason John's voice soft and full of humor saying _"because you're an idiot" _was there in his mind suddenly. He shoved the memory away.

"He is going to…" Perkins never got a chance to finish. The arrow went right through his neck. He made a gasping gurgling noise and dropped to the floor. There was nothing Sherlock could do to save him. Nothing anyone could do, but he could spare him a horrific death. He pulled out his gun, Perkins nodded and Sherlock shot him.

"Not good enough," he yelled to the empty building.

"That's what you think," Moriarty's sing-song echoed back.

"So you are here."

"Of course I am."

"Whoever put the traps upstairs was sloppy, I spotted them all."

"Yes, I knew you would. Which is why I had the explosives put in the bottom of the building."

There was the sound of a door closing and footsteps retreating. Sherlock guessed Moriarty would make sure he had time to get out and away from the building before it blew, so what was faster up and over or try and get down and out? He glanced around, the room was dirty, rags were piled in one corner, there were several buckets beside them. The background scent of turpentine was suddenly much stronger as he focused on a way to get out. He heard another door shut from the lower floors, and was getting ready to just run for it when he spotted a coil of rope. He quickly tied it to the post closest to a window, tossed it out, climbed over the sill, grabbed the rope and slid quickly down, glad he had on his gloves, hating what the harsh rope was no doubt doing to his favorite pair. He hit the ground and ran. Fifteen seconds, twenty, twenty-two and the building blew. The force of it knocked him down. His head hit something solid and he lay stunned for a moment watching the clouds of dust billow over him.

**XXXXX**

Mycroft poured himself another cup a tea, hoping it would stop the headache pounding behind his eyes. After he had taken care of Outler's body and sent Lestrade on his way, he'd stopped by the hospital. John's doctors were hesitant to reduce the sedation so quickly, but Mycroft needed John Watson awake and talking as soon as possible, and since they had to pull the vent for him to talk, he needed to be awake. It was probably cruel, Mycroft knew that objectively. Probably might not even enter into it, but Sherlock had to be stopped and he now knew there was only one person that could put an end to it, and he had to be awake and talking to do so.

Once he had carefully explained the situation to Seekins, the doctor had gone in and taken care of it. John should be awake within the next three hours and they would pull the vent shortly after that. Seekins had told him the patient would be in incredible pain, and Mycroft had said he didn't care—which was true. Britain was being pulled apart and he really didn't care if John Watson was in agony, it had to end.

He sipped his tea. Of course that decision would probably not go down well with Sherlock. Mycroft was sure that if it came down to a choice, blood would not prove thicker and Sherlock would have no problem settling up for John's pain. In fact, Mycroft was rather expecting it, and had resigned himself to take it with as good a grace as possible.

His phone beeped, not for a text, but a voice call, pulling it out he looked down at the caller ID and felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. "Yes, sir," he answered calmly.

"This cannot be allowed to continue, Holmes."

"I know, sir, I am taking care of it."

"We could look the other way, you know, he was doing us a rather large favor removing those people."

"Yes, sir," Mycroft said, wondering where this was going.

"It's gone too far."

"If you are speaking about Outler, I have handled that personally, sir."

"I am, but we don't know what was said before he died."

"Ah," Mycroft said. Outler was in a minor post in the government, but this call must mean someone higher up was part of Moriarty's web. It must be someone fairly important. That was worrisome. "It's been handled," he repeated.

"Yes, Holmes, it has."

"Sir?"

"I have enacted Protocol 1138 on Sherlock Holmes. I am sorry, Holmes."

"Yes, sir," Mycroft heard himself answer emotionlessly. His mouth was completely dry and his hands were shaking. An agent had been dispatched to kill his brother, Protocol 1138 meant the agent would no longer be in contact with them, it meant no one knew who the agent was, it meant that the agent only reported back once his mission was done. It meant if this agent failed another would be dispatched until the job was done.

It meant there was nothing Mycroft could do to save his brother.

He held his phone in trembling hands, damning the tremor as he texted. _You are now under Protocol 1138. Goodbye, Sherlock._

His phone beeped a few moments later. _Understood. Let John know. Goodbye, Mycroft._

_**To Be Continued**_


	4. It Ends

_A/N: Thank you all for reading and reviewing! I hope you have enjoyed this little outing. After rewatching A Scandal in Belgravia (for research purposes, of course) I noticed just how many people might have been removed to save Irene Adler… And I felt better about what Sherlock has done for John… _

**Case of the Burning Heart**

**It Ends**

The screen of his phone had turned itself off several minutes before, and Sherlock was still staring at it. Protocol 1138, there was no way to escape it. That was the whole idea behind it in the first place. It had been created in case someone in the government was compromised—they would have 1138 to fall back on. No paper trail, no contact, no anything to tie the death to anyone. Mycroft couldn't recall the agent, he wouldn't even know who he was. Sherlock took a slow breath, killing Outler had been a mistake, but he hadn't realized how deeply the man was connected and how many in the government were in the middle of Moriarty's web until the man was already dying. He had known the death would draw attention, he had hoped Mycroft could cover it up, after all Outler was nothing more than a clerk—or so he thought until it was too late. Now he had not only Moriarty's attention but the government's as well. There was one more stop he needed to make, four more people he'd learned had been involved in the plot that led to John's shooting and the kidnapping by the Red Circle several months before. Once they were gone, he would have to disappear.

No. Sherlock paused. He would need to see John one last time, to explain everything before he disappeared. He needed time to say he was sorry about that experiment that had destroyed the brand new china John had purchased to replace the dishes that Sherlock had broken when unexpected company came to call and he had nothing within reach to defend himself except the plates. He needed to apologize for… Sherlock shook his head. He was lying to himself, he needed to say goodbye because he needed to say goodbye. There was no need to justify it. John would understand, he knew you had to say goodbye before you left—or in this case engineered your own death. Until he was dead, 1138 would be in place, and so the simple plan was to let an agent find him, kill the agent, but "die" himself and just disappear.

He needed to make a few calls to set that in motion.

**XXXXX**

Lestrade had a headache that would kill an elephant as he made his way towards his office. He noticed several of the men give him a strange look and had no idea why until he opened his door. Sitting in the chair, prim as Mary Poppins, was Mycroft Holmes.

"What do you want?" Lestrade growled, dropping into his chair. He was getting tired of the man—he had no emotions, his reactions were always off. If it had been Lestrade's younger brother and best friend going through this, Lestrade was sure he would be doing more to help… But then again, Mycroft was covering up a string of bodies that made Jack the Ripper look like an amateur.

"Good morning to you, too," Mycroft answered with that smug smile. God, Lestrade wanted to hit him. "We have a problem."

"Another one? I just got through getting the blood out of my clothing from the last problem."

"This is serious." The smile dropped as did Mycroft's shoulders. Something told Lestrade that despite the act, the man was desperate and nearing despondent.

"What?"

"Protocol 1138."

Lestrade stared at him, he was sure it meant something. It sounded like it meant something. "Should I know what that is?"

"Not really, no one is supposed to know but a select few, I think five of us in total, but I am going to tell you."

"Okay."

"An agent has been sent to remove Sherlock. There is nothing I can do to stop it."

"Remove? Wait, do you mean kill?"

"Of course," Mycroft said with a sigh. "Sherlock will try to get in to see John before he disappears. We need to make sure he does."

"Why?"

"This might surprise you, Lestrade, but I do care about my brother, and he deserves to say goodbye to John Watson before he dies."

"What can I do about that?"

"Get some of your people in there. Sherlock has one of his own guarding the ICU, but a few more wouldn't hurt. I have no idea how he will get in, but he will. The agent will know this as well. He might wait for a while, he might kill him there. It depends on who the agent is. Some of them are rather sadistic in their game."

"Game. He's going to kill Sherlock and you call it a game."

"It is a game, the players change sometimes, but it's all a game."

Lestrade tried to keep from exploding. He wanted nothing more than to grab Mycroft and shake him until his teeth rattled, then toss him out the window. The fact that there was a death sentence on his brother's head didn't seem to bother him at all. Or… Maybe it did, because he was here, asking for help, although he hadn't phrased it exactly as another person might. "We can't trust anyone," Lestrade said. "We don't know who the agent is. I assume it's not you."

"Not in this case, no."

That chilling bit of information made Lestrade take a second look at the man sitting opposite him. "The only people we can trust are the ones Sherlock has guarding the doors…"

"And us."

"Right, so we have to be there. I can't even trust my own people in this." Lestrade rose. "Your car or mine?"

**XXXXX**

The hospital was busy when Sherlock arrived. He watched the comings and goings for fifteen minutes, surprised to see Mycroft slip out the door and into a nondescript car. Sherlock was half-tempted to follow, but the need to see John outweighed the need to know what his brother was up to at this point. Things were in place for his "death" when the time came, of course. He had also left a letter and his will at 221B, in case things went wrong and the agent killed him. After another twenty minutes he spotted an inbound ambulance and slowly started working his way over so that when they unloaded, he could walk in with the medics. His timing was perfect and as they rolled their patient in—the victim of a crash, considering all the blood—he was through the doors and down the hall before the cameras had a chance to catch his presence.

There was a supply closet at end of the hall, using the ID he had borrowed from the doctor the night before, he opened the door and stepped in. The shelves were full. He took off his coat, slipped a white coat on and stepped back out again. There was no way to avoid the cameras, but he could do his best to not be himself. He changed his gate, limping slightly on his left leg, not enough to be obvious, more like someone who had an old injury that was acting up a bit. He opened the staff staircase and headed up, pausing to step out of the way of a pair of nurses, one female, one male on the way down. They were talking about one of their cases. From their tone, Sherlock could tell the male nurse was deeply worried about their patient, but the woman was bored. She was fidgeting with one hand, flipping a pen over and over, it was a common habit with her, that side of her shirt had small marks of ink on it.

When they were down another flight, he peeked over the edge. No one was coming up, so he continued on. The door on the third floor opened right as he got to it, and it took his quick reflexes to override his own natural reaction to strike out. The man was in scrubs, there were flecks of blood on one of his shoes. He looked a little wild and for a moment Sherlock wondered if he was, indeed, the man dispatched to kill him.

"Are you on the Balsis case?" the man asked. According to his badge he was Philip Borman.

"Balsis?" Sherlock replied, pitching his voice a little higher than his usual tones.

"Martin Balsis? I'm sure we consulted a couple of days ago?"

"Ah yes, Martin." Sherlock frowned. "What's going on?"

"Oh, he's rejecting that new treatment we discussed," he said, leaning on the wall. "I was hoping you might have another idea. I'm all out, and I really dread telling his wife there's no hope."

"We'll have to think of something else, Borman." Sherlock gave the man a pat on the shoulder—it seemed to be the correct reaction, because the man pushed himself off the wall with a weary smile. "I'm going to have something to eat, then go back, care to join me?"

"I'd love to, but I'm on my way back up, and they do frown on two meals in the same hour." He forced a chuckle—and again it was the right thing. Borman laughed, slapped him on the back and continued down the stairs. Sherlock watched him until he exited several floors below. His heart was pounding, having Protocol 1138 hanging over his head was making him jumpy.

**XXXXX**

Mycroft stood in an abandoned building, the wind was whistling through the pipes over his head. The building had a musty smell, musty with a hint of very expensive cologne. He looked at one of the men standing there. "Are you sure it's him?"

"Yes, sir," Myron answered. They were his hand-picked men, Sherlock had his secrets, Mycroft had a few of his own.

"I have to be sure."

"We're sure," the other—Mueller—answered. "He was handed over to us by a reputable source. It seems some of their contacts have gone down in Sherlock's attempts to take him out and they were more than happy to help." He grinned. "And we made sure—with a little encouragement."

"He can't lie with that stuff in him," Myron continued.

"Very good," Mycroft said, he crouched down by the man bound hand and foot. "If you had left John Watson alone, this would never have had to happen."

"You have no idea what I can do," he spat back.

"Your little games would still be intact if you had just left it alone."

"You will regret this."

"I don't think I will, but you will regret ever starting this war with Sherlock, Moriarty. It was a grave mistake."

"His," the man said, his voice dripping with venom.

"No, yours. None of this would have happened if you had left him alone." Mycroft stood. "Wait for my orders."

"Yes, sir," Myron said and yanked Moriarty up. They dragged him across the floor and tossed him, none-to-gently, into the back of a van.

Mycroft pulled out his phone and dialed. "I have Moriarty, sir."

"Very good, Holmes, I shall look forward to questioning him."

"No, sir."

"What was that?" the man growled.

"I am offering you a trade."

"You are playing a dangerous game."

"As always." Mycroft smiled. "Moriarty for my brother's life, sir."

There was a long, long pause on the other end. "Once I have Moriarty, I will rescind the Protocol, but I cannot recall the agent that has already been dispatched."

"Understood, sir." Mycroft walked to the van. "Take him to holding."

"Yes, sir."

Mycroft waited until they were gone before he returned to his car. He pulled out his phone and texted Sherlock _Need to speak with you._

There was no reply.

**XXXXX**

Snyder and Fisher were standing in the ICU corridor when Sherlock stepped out of the stairwell. "Has there been another attack?"

"No, sir," Fisher said. "We're here to make sure your back is covered."

Sherlock nodded and headed towards John's room. He was stopped just outside the doors. "The doctor is in with him right now, they asked me to wait out here," Lestrade said.

"Why?"

"Something about pulling the vent."

"What?" Sherlock heard the dangerous note in his own voice as Lestrade took a step back, his hands up in a placating gesture. "What?"

"He said they were pulling the vent," Lestrade repeated, his face pale.

Sherlock's phone beeped, he pulled it out, a text from Mycroft. He shoved the phone back in his pocket. "Mycroft?"

"Yes, he felt it best in the situation," Dr. Seekins said, stepping out of the room. "You…"

Sherlock didn't wait for permission, he shoved past the man and into the room. John's face was gray, his eyes full of pain, still he managed a small smile. He opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out, and he started coughing. Sherlock hurried to the bed and grabbed the cup sitting on the table. He held it to John's mouth so he could take a sip, then set it back down.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, knowing it was his fault that John was conscious right now—and judging by tension in his muscles—in enormous pain.

"No," John croaked. He reached out a hand for Sherlock.

"It's my fault," Sherlock said, taking his hand. It felt cold, and John was trembling. "It's probably why they are withholding meds, so you can talk to me."

"Why?" John's voice was barely there. Sherlock heard Lestrade come into the room behind him. John didn't say anything, but he looked at Lestrade for a moment then met Sherlock's eyes, searching them. "Stop."

"Lestrade, go get the doctor and…"

"No." John tightened his grip. "You." Sherlock was quiet, his heart hammering in his chest. "Greg?" John said softly.

"I'll be right outside."

"John…" Sherlock said surprised at the harsh tone of his own voice.

"No, you… have… to… stop."

"John…"

"How many?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it and looked away.

"You have to stop," John's voice was beginning to reflect the agony.

"You do," Mycroft said.

Sherlock turned without letting go of John's hand. He knew his brother saw it. "Tell them to give him pain medication."

"I already have, they will be in shortly." Mycroft stepped closer to the bed. "Good to see you, John. He's right, you have to stop."

"No."

"We have Moriarty in custody."

"What?"

"You can't get to him, he won't get out, so stop."

"Mycroft, you know…"

"Sherlock, they have rescinded the protocol except for the single man already dispatched. If you stop this now, that's all we have to deal with. If you continue, I won't be able to stop it again."

"You?" Sherlock said. The tic at the corner of Mycroft's eye was jumping. "Why?"

"I traded them something they wanted."

"Should I ask?"

"I won't tell you," Mycroft said. "But if you stop, it is mostly over. Welcome back, John."

The doctor came in as Mycroft left. Sherlock knew the instant the drugs hit John's system. His hand stopped trembling and he breathed out a sigh of relief. He waited patiently while the doctor checked over John, noting the man's hands—he was left handed—and the stain on one shoe. There was a quiet efficiency about him that seemed to calm John, so Sherlock made no comment about the fact the man smelled of day-old whiskey or that his bald patch had been poorly combed over that morning.

"Will you stop?" John asked, his voice still raspy, his eyes closing.

"There are four…"

"No. Stop, Sherlock," John said, holding his eyes the way he had on the street as Sherlock waited for help to come. "Sherlock?"

He thought about it, listening to the clock ticking behind him. There were still four more left, four more who were personally involved, but the Protocol had been rescinded, John was alive. He could do this for John. "I'll stop."

"Thank you."

Sherlock nodded, clearing his throat. He held John's hand until his friend fell asleep, aware of the wetness on his cheeks, but ignoring it. Lestrade was outside the door, no one would come in and he could pull himself back together before he walked back out into the world. Everything was almost okay, everything but the single agent who could not be recalled. He would deal with that later.

Sherlock sank down in the chair beside the bed. The hours since the shooting were catching up with him. He hadn't slept the night before it happened or since. He left his hand on John's bed and fell asleep.

**XXXXX**

It was good to be home. John sighed happily as he lay on the couch at 221B. Mrs. Hudson was busily making tea and had spent the day popping up and down the stairs to make sure he had everything he needed. She put the hospital staff to shame, and he'd made a point of telling her that on several occasions. She laughed, reminded him she wasn't his nurse, and went to get him more tea.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair reading, occasionally glancing over—as if he expected John to disappear. They had talked about what had happened. John had extracted a little information on what Sherlock had done while he was in the hospital, but he knew there was more. It felt like a gulf between them in some ways, a debt he could never repay. The damage Sherlock had inflicted to get to Moriarty because of the shooting was phenomenal—he had learned from Lestrade about the work he and Mycroft had been doing to keep it quiet.

John knew about Protocol 1138 as well. Sherlock hadn't wanted to tell him, so John had fired off a series of texts to Mycroft. He really didn't feel like they owed Mycroft for covering things up, after all, they had done him favors in the past. After the fourth text, Mycroft had finally called and explained in clipped tones what it was, and what it meant. John was horrified. Even with the order cancelled, there was still an assassin stalking the streets waiting for the right moment to strike. Mycroft had made it very clear there was no way they could recall the agent, that was the whole point of the Protocol.

"Nearly dinner. Chinese?" Sherlock said, closing his book.

"God, yes," John agreed fervently. Hospital food was not good, and the special diet he'd been on was worse.

Sherlock stood and grabbed his coat. "Never mind Mrs. Hudson, I'm going out to get something," he said as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

John would never be sure what it was that alerted him to the danger, but he was pulling his service pistol out from under the pillow as the man reached the top of the stairs. "Sherlock!" he shouted a warning then fired. The man grunted and dropped to his knee, and John noticed the bulk of a bulletproof vest under his shirt. Taking a steadying breath, John fired again before either the man or Sherlock had time to react.

The flat was quiet.

"Vests only work when someone aims at your chest," John said matter-of-factly as Sherlock looked at him. "They don't do any good at all for heads."

Sherlock smiled and pulled out his phone. "Hello, brother dear, John just solved 1138, can you get someone to clean up the mess?" He closed the phone. "So, Chinese. The usual?"

"Yes," John said, smiling back. "Don't let it get cold this time."

"I'm not running back just to keep your satay sauce from congealing." Sherlock pulled on his coat and walked to the couch, the smile dropped from his face and he met John's eyes. Everything he didn't say was there. He cleared his throat. "Thank you, John."

John shook his head, there was no need for thanks, no need for anything. He'd found the letter Sherlock had intended to be read if he'd been killed. He had very carefully put it back, making sure Sherlock would never know it had been touched. "You better hurry, I might die of starvation."

"On my way, Mycroft's people just pulled up. I'll be right back."

"Don't let my sauce congeal."

"I can't change physics." Sherlock grinned, stepping carefully over the body and bounded down the steps and out into the street.

John leaned back against the pillows. It was good to be home again.

_**The End**_


End file.
